


3AM Rain

by knaveofmogadore



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Character Death, Eldritch, Horror, Mild Blood, Original Character(s), POV Jewish Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 05:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21314944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knaveofmogadore/pseuds/knaveofmogadore
Summary: A god and it's killer limp down a city street in the early hours of the morning. The rain is pouring down, trying to cleanse the city streets of the horror it has witnessed tonight. They talk until the silence comes for them both.
Kudos: 2





	3AM Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This is a big Jewish fuck you to the call of Chithulu but like, abstract and also based on a poem I wrote about Gd

The rain made neon out of the cracked asphalt of the abandoned city street. A figure in a hoodie trudges slowly down the poorly maintained sidewalk. Their blood crusted converse scuff across the ground as the figure limps. Red trails from their shoulder and stains their t-shirt and jeans. The thing bundled in their bloodied hoodie in their arms imitates the cry of a newborn child. They impatiently hush the thing. When it wails louder the figure stops walking to shake it violently. The child’s head whips backward, pulling its neck into an unnatural angle that would snap a real child’s spine. 

“We both know you have no reason to cry,” they hiss. 

It quiets. Its face smoothes and pales too quickly to be natural. A vacant smile replaces the feral rage from moments before. The figure shudders and looks forward, covering the thing’s face with the hood of their destroyed sweatshirt and pressing it close to their chest. The thing giggles and the sound hangs in the air in the same manner of stench and decay. 

“You tricked them into creating you. Do you feel remorse for killing the woman that would have been your mother?”

They are a hypocrite, of course. They too have killed. They too have purged in the name of their goals. The evidence has stained their shoes and splattered across their face. It has trickled down their back and ruined their clothes. The smell hangs heavy in the air. The child squirms in their arms and presses its small hands against their chest. They constrict it further and it claws against their chest. A grating squeal that no human could make tears from its throat. Guilt wars with their own justifications, and the thing in their arms is not amused. They limp forward.

Police sirens wail in the distance, echoing through the streets in a sad attempt to cut the silence. They will fix sixteen bodies in various states of dismemberment. One woman, devoured down to the bones by the thing in their arms. Two women and three men ripped limb from limb by the force of bringing it into the world. Their blood will be splattered across the walls in patterns formed by the shock wave. Seven more adults humanely shot. Two more adults cleanly stabbed. One last one who put up too much of a fight over the foul thing they had tried to bring into the world. 

“You devoured her, does that bring you no shame?” 

The wind picks up and the rain turns to sheets. Their shirt, soaked through, drips red onto the pavement under the onslaught. The world has disappeared into the fog rising from the asphalt. Streetlights and twenty year old signs blend into muted tones. As far as they're concerned the sidewalk ends three feet ahead and three feet back. The circle of light underneath the orange shadow of this fluorescent street light is their entire world now. The child’s arm breaks free of its bindings and reaches up to tug at a clump of black curls. Knowing eyes, too worldly for the form of a fresh soul the thing is trying to claim, reflect under the light of their diluted sun. In spite of themselves their mouth twitches. 

“What am I going to do with you now? It's not like I can kill you in the state you're in now.” 

Actually receiving a response causes them to recoil into the lamp. The thing’s mouth is hidden under layers of bloodstained fabric, but they can see it moving still. Its voice sounds like ice cracking, tires squealing, metal being sheared in half. It is the sound of impending disaster spoken in the tone of absolute bureaucratic boredom. A low, ear-splitting ring lingers in the air after it has gone silent.

‘And why can't you? Soon after you will join me, what are you afraid of? You will not have long with the guilt, after all.’

It's right, but they still feel justified in being annoyed. The gash in their stomach throbs with pain at being exposed to open air. Cleaned by the rain and irritated at their march it still bleeds freely, slowly staining their socks and puddling in their shoes. They won't live to see the warrant for their arrest. Forget about living three more hours until morning. Two and a half hours is a half cocked pipe dream. The nearest help is fifty minutes of walking, and they have forty five at best.   
They slide down against the iron pole and settle on the pavement. The thing rests against their drawn up thighs. The hoodie is pulled more securely over its’ mouth with shaking hands but it puts up no protest. Not long now and it might even be free. 

‘Why do you hate me so?’ 

Its’ entertainment wheezes, “If you were truly something that could call itself Elohim you would know.” 

‘Indulge me in some parting renouncing, I would love to be the last to hear it.’ 

“Fuck you,” the human whispers.

The child stays silent, waiting. It has already waited six thousand years and three hours. In the face of near eternity a human’s limited patience is nothing. Forty five minutes of silence would also be nothing, albeit an incredibly boring version of nothing. The everlasting void with its constant cacophony would be better than watching this human slowly bleed out for the next forty minutes. 

As predicted, the silence gets to them. 

"I've been an atheist since I was ten years old,” they begin, “I couldn't decide that there was nothing, but I was certain that there was no God, no one to lord over the mortal life. If there was something that could or would call itself Elohim, it's not something worthy of the effort of worship. After all, what have you done for your own followers? They freed you from your prison and you killed them in return.”

It stays silent. Patient. Not long now.

They clear their throat and spit to the side. Shadows cast by their body are beginning to look solid. One could say viscous, or even sticky. A little red. 

“Certainly,” they say softly, “all of humanity could not be hallucinating some deity, some self serving force. 

But whoever, whatever you are, you are no God. Nothing so lacking in empathy and kindness, no being that has the infinite power to help and refuses to could ever be worth the effort of worship. You could never be worth the pain of devotion.” 

It hums, and the sound rattles their bones. The entertainment shivers and retches, dry heaves. It waits in silence Not long now.

“You are not deserving of my mercy,” they say, voice trembling with anger and the effort it takes to force the words free.

They continue, “But You are also undeserving of the weight of my guilt, of the self satisfaction you will get from my killing you when you're like this. I cannot kill you in this form without destroying myself. Don't you understand?

‘You entreat a god you do not believe in to understand you?’

You are not entitled to my emotions. You are not entitled to love or understanding or kindness. You were never worthy of devotion. You were never worthy of the belief you were given by your followers. You never were, you never will be! Your entitlement disgusts me almost as much as it frightens me."

The child begins to laugh. It throws back its head and frees its wide, wide, too wide for a human mouth and laughs with all of its strength. The child has a full set of teeth, too many teeth for a human skull, stained red with blood. It cakes its face and peels off of its lips. With the last of their strength they lift the child, still laughing as the shredded hoodie blows away, to smash its head against the sidewalk. It wails, but it also laughs. It cackles as its’ skull it flung repeatedly at the unforgiving asphalt. Laughter turns to enraged shrieking, mixes with it, melts the air with the unholy mix of sound. The final scream hands in the air long after a mess has been made. Silence only comes as their red blood mixes with the black puddle of its’ remains and turns pink under the cleansing onslaught of rain. If the weather has its way, this whole scene will be washed down the storm drains by morning. 

The figure shakes violently under the light of their fluorescent sun. Their bloodstained hands press against their mortal wound. Pain, blessed pain, reminds them that they will be alive these final thirteen minutes of silence. Blessed silence. 

“You're right,” they laugh, “Why should I waste my last breaths arguing with you? Silence is the only thing you deserve.” 

The figure smiles and leans back against the light. The metallic ring of their head hitting the pole is drowned out by the rain.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece for a competition but didn't end up winning, so if anyone is checking this for plagarism, hi Jamison!!


End file.
